


Backspace

by gertrudeabernathy



Series: Keyboard [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Embarrassment, Epic Fail, Fluff and Smut, M/M, pornstar!Stiles (except not)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 16:03:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gertrudeabernathy/pseuds/gertrudeabernathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles gets a surprise visit - and he has maybe been worrying a bit about this, but he isn't going to put his twenty-something boyfriend off by being all nervous and shy and idiotic - no, he is going to show Derek that he is Mr Super-Hot and Confident, by getting all up in Derek's junk.</p><p>Stand back for a demonstration of how to expertly grope the genitals of your first ever sexual partner (well, hopefully) through their pants without any warning or discussion on your first ever not-actual-date, ten seconds after they arrive.</p><p>This should go fantastically well!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Backspace

Stiles was looking at himself in the bathroom mirror again. He felt justified in tuning in to The Naked Stiles Show a lot lately, because whenever he did, things looked different to the way they had in previous episodes.

Today he was looking at his chest. It was - better - it had two planes of flatness, not just ribs with soft baby fat over. It was like a flatter, thinner version of the chest of an actual man with actual pectoral muscles. At least it definitely wasn’t a kid’s chest. There was a little bit of brown hair in the vee; it was clearly visible with the bright overhead heating lamps on. Stiles put his hand over his breast over his heart. He wasn't sure if his nipples were sensitive, but that felt good, gripping the muscle there quite hard. He took his hand away and the mark was a little white, then redder than the surrounding skin.

Next he looked at his mouth. There had been a bit of murmuring about his mouth two nights ago; and now he was looking to see if he could see anything remarkable about it for himself. His top lip had a definite shape, arched, anyway, and his mouth wasn’t chapped or anything like that… He licked the tip of his finger and ran it over the bottom lip, pressing in, then over the top lip, trying to feel for the most sensitive parts. The bottom lip felt nice, but there was a place on the inside curve of his top lip that made him almost dizzy when he licked it with the tip of his tongue, then stroked it with a wet fingertip. He closed his eyes and stroked it again and he was half-hard. And when he looked at his mouth again, it looked different, wet and shining and redder and - could it be swelling? It looked fuller. It tingled. Stiles slipped his index finger inside and sucked it in as far as he could get it. Did his mouth look good, sucking like that?

He wanted Derek to tell him it looked good, that he was amazing. He wanted to hear him to sigh and cry out and breathe fast when he touched him. He wanted to dazzle him. He never wanted there to be a moment where Derek felt that he was too far ahead, that Stiles was too young for him, or not sure about him, or not sure about men, or not sure about himself. He felt pretty sure now, but how would he cope with Derek touching him, for real now, not just an arm around his shoulders or a soft kiss? Derek had probably done everything twice - with - some hot people - who Stiles had never heard mentioned, admittedly... but how could anyone who looked like that NOT know everything about - everything? And Stiles knew practically nothing - not at first hand, anyway. And that was bad, because he wanted Derek to feel they were on equal terms, in this part of their - thing, anyway. “No Fear,” he said sternly, to his reflection in the foggy glass. 

He went back to his room and automatically put on his fave sleep pants and a t-shirt. There was a pack meeting the next day, and he would see Derek there; that’s what they had said, when they were kissing and whispering goodbyes in the cool night air. Saturday. But the Sheriff had been called in to work to cover for someone with the flu tonight, and Stiles felt an ache of loneliness and disappointment when he thought that he had missed a chance to ask Derek to swing by. It was pretty late, but he could still text him and say, “Come up and see me sometime, in fact, now.” Or was that lame? He couldn't tell. Would Derek even get a Mae West reference? Too obscure? He could text him, “I’ve got something to show you,” and be half-naked when he arrived. He had his phone in his hand and was looking at himself in the mirrored doors of his built-in, trying to see if he had the courage to do it, but there was a dull thud, and behind his pale reflected self, Derek was there in the dark, clinging to the outside frame of his closed window, and grinning a little at Stiles’ yelp of surprise.

“Good one!” he fluttered, trying hard not to look pathetically thrilled, as he unlatched and opened the window. “I guess watching me have a heart attack never gets old.”

“It hasn’t so far,” said the alpha, climbing in, “and I enjoy it most when you are in your Batman PJs.”

“It’s late at night and I’m alone in my bedroom. I think my tuxedo and cummerbund would be overdoing it.”

“I’ve been seeing onesies in the stores lately.”

“So I could look like a 19th century miner.”

“Cowboys used to wear ‘em.”

It was on the tip of Stiles’ tongue to say, ‘so did I, when I was six’ - but he flinched and bit his tongue. That was the last fucking thing he wanted to say. He was suddenly anxious, and a little bit irritated, at himself and - crazily, he knew it - a little at Derek too. He had wanted to be cool and in control, and he hadn’t had a chance to prepare. Derek was too … overwhelming - or something - when he was unexpected.

“Stiles…” and now Derek looked anxious, too. “This is OK, isn’t it? I know it’s not what we said…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” cried Stiles, and grabbed Derek’s shoulders and pushed him back abruptly, so that his knees gave and he fell backwards onto the bed. Then Stiles knelt astride his hips, and leaned down low over him, resting his weight on his hands on Derek’s shoulders, pinning him, daring him to move. When he saw that Derek was still and watchful, Stiles bent in and angled his head, and kissed him hard, with tongue, then when Derek licked back, he sucked firmly and Derek’s tongue was in his mouth, and he was saying “nggh” in shock. Stiles sucked harder, and now Derek’s hips pressed up against his suddenly. Without moving away from his mouth, Stiles balanced his weight on one arm and moved his hand down to seek the shape of Derek’s cock inside his jeans.

He found it, and stroked and squeezed a little along its length, still kind of soft-feeling but probably firming up nicely. He was pleasantly surprised - having wondered from time to time if all that "research" was actually going to help at all when it came to it - to feel that Derek’s junk was right where he expected it to be in his pants, and he experimented with dipping his hand down between those strong thighs, along the seam of his jeans, feeling for the root of his cock and for the cleft of his ass. Until Derek pulled his mouth away and said, “What are you DOING?”

Stiles tried to move back too fast, and fell off onto the floor. He scrambled into a sitting position at the end of his bed, saying, "I wasn't doing - oh my god!" and buried his face in his hands. 

“Where did you go?” Derek slipped off the bed too, and was sitting beside him on the floor, waiting.

"Sorry," muttered Stiles, almost inaudibly. "I was just trying to - sorry." 

"Trying to ravish me?" said Derek, biting his lip.

"Please don't, even though I totally deserve to be humiliated further for that little display."

"Stop it. Stiles - are you OK?"

“I’m fine,” he muttered without raising his head or moving his hands.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” said Derek. “I didn’t mean…”

“No no no, I think 'what are you doing' was a perfectly fair question.”

“I was - surprised. I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“I don’t think it’s you that needs to be worried about his manners," said Stiles hoarsely.

“Are you really OK? Stiles!” and now Derek might actually hate him and think he was an idiot and a baby, because…

“Hey!" Derek sounded really alarmed, "Are you crying?” and the answer was, disgracefully, yes, he was wiping a few hot tears away, that he hadn't been able to hold back, because he was so ashamed of his stupid, frightened, fake, show-offy self.

“Oh, Stiles, no, don't, please!” and Derek was folding him in, putting an arm around his neck and turning him, and lifting his legs so they were over his lap, and holding him and stroking his stupid hair and kissing his temple and it didn’t seem like he was mad with Stiles at all, although he was probably thinking that it would never work out, because instead of being a reasonable human being who cared about him, Stiles was a sort of violently talentless prostitute…

“Stiles! Stop thinking crazy things!” said Derek in exasperation, but his touch was so tender that Stiles’ heart felt enlarged and hot and like he might really have a heart attack of a special kind that didn’t hurt at all.

“I could be thinking anything,” protested Stiles weakly. “How do you know I am thinking crazy things?”

“Experience,” said Derek, squeezing Stiles’ shoulder ruefully.

“Oh, fuck.” And Derek felt that sharp face pressing into his collarbone, hot and damp. “I really am sorry.”

“Don’t be. We’re fine!”

“Are we fine?” Stiles pulled back to look at him. “How can you be FINE with me being a ... a crazy person?”

“You aren’t a crazy person.” And then, Stiles FELT Derek laugh, felt it through his chest and his arm around Derek’s shoulders. “Except…” and he trailed off.

“Except for the part where I AM a CRAZY PERSON!”

“Well, you’re an enthusiastic crazy person, anyway,” said Derek, giving him a sudden smacking kiss on the cheek that made Stiles laugh in turn. “A crazy seventeen-year-old PORN STAR person who wants to - to - grope my ass and - fuck my brains out - and RAVISH me - one minute into our not-even-first-date.”

“Oh holy Jesus, Derek.”

“You showed ME, Tiger!”

“Oh, don’t!” and from starting to feel like it was almost funny, a predictable outcome to whipping himself into a frenzy over every hardcore thing he had ever seen or heard about now being - expected of him? or even just - a possibility - his stupidity went back to being a red raw place inside him, all over again. What had he been THINKING? Derek's "JUNK"? That would be his - his hidden, soft, tender, private - Stiles groaned in shame, and Derek sounded serious and careful again.

“Look at me.” He hesitated, hanging his head. “Look at me, Stiles, come on.”

He looked up into those mysterious pale green grey shifting eyes, and breathed quietly.

“Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“You have nothing to prove.” Stiles shivered but didn’t move, or look away. “You came and found me and kissed me in my front yard! You wanted me, and now you've got me.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, this great big fucked-up disaster is all yours, god help you.”

“You aren't that fucked-up,” said Stiles reflexively.

“If you say so.”

Stiles leant his head on Derek’s shoulder and felt that same flood of light again, like the first night.

“Can I ask you something?” Stiles whispered into that hot, soft, stubbly neck.

“Anything. Really - " and he moved up a little behind him. "anything you want, Stiles."

“I want to know what something feels like.”

“What is it?”

“Will you - “ but he couldn’t get the words out.

It seemed too mild or too strange to ask for aloud, so Stiles shuffled them around a little until he was leaning back against Derek’s chest, and picked up Derek’s hand, and put it over his own breast over his heart, feeling its heat through his old t-shirt. Derek left it there, close but not gripping, until he felt Stiles sigh, and then he ran his hand very slowly back and forward over Stiles’ chest, using the fronts and backs of his fingers alternately. He ran his finger from the point of one shoulder through the cotton, along one collarbone, carefully over the exposed skin at the dip, then along the other to the point of the other shoulder. He felt Stiles' back flex.

Then Derek slipped his right arm under Stiles', and put the palm of his hand flat and hot over the tight bud on the left side, and lightly squeezed the muscle, not hard, just holding his breast in his hand. Stiles' world silently contracted to the place Derek's hand held him, to the line of heat that was his arm. The difference between his own hand, and Derek's holding him was ... unimaginable. 

“Is that what you wanted to feel?” Derek whispered.

"Yes." Stiles didn't have to ask how Derek had known exactly what he wanted. He had felt for it, sort of listened for it in his movement and his breath and his heartbeat and his scent, probably, moving carefully through every sense to find what Stiles needed. He lay there in Derek's arms, floating, rapt in that gentle pressure, and stopped thinking for a minute.

After a little while Stiles said, “Does that feel nice to you, too?”

“Like I am holding your heart in my hand,” said Derek, and ran his fingers over Stiles’ torso, feeling the warmth and the movement of his breath, which was catching here and there, and back to his left breast, and held on. 

“I will never ever be able to go to sleep again,” said Stiles vaguely, “I will just be lying here feeling that, forever, won’t I?”

“I think you’ll be asleep inside ten minutes.”

“You think you know everyth- no! don't let go…” And he didn't.

\------

Stiles woke up the next morning, warm in his bed, with the covers tucked round him, and the curtains blowing around a little because the window was open an inch at the bottom. It was a perfect, blue, cold, windy day. And that afternoon there was a pack meeting. After the pack meeting, after the others had gone, Derek would probably want to sit with him and hold his hand. 

It might get a bit overwhelming, but Stiles felt pretty ready for it.


End file.
